Perfect Dead

by Jackie Baldwin

  ‘Well, I got up there and could immediately see that the bones were human, so I called off the dog, fetched back here and called you lot. Seemed an odd place to dump a body. Giving yourself all that work slogging up the hill? Didn’t make sense when you could’ve heaved it over the cliffs. It wasn’t even as though the bones were dug up. Just sitting on the surface they were. Mind you, they might have been buried at one point. We had some mighty wild storms this winter.’

  Farrell stood up, followed by Mhairi.

  ‘Can you take us to the remains?’

  ‘Aye, lad, that I can. It’s a fair way mind. Might be best to take the tractor?’

  Farrell ignored the pleading look from Mhairi. He couldn’t run the risk of destroying any trail of evidence. Shanks’s pony it was then. They set off, struggling to keep up with the farmer, who was as fit as a flea. The land was very exposed to the elements, but with spectacular sea views. They could hear the roar below as the waves pounded into the cliffs.

  ‘What about the unexploded ordnance?’ asked Mhairi, looking as though she expected to be blown to smithereens at any moment.

  ‘Och, never you mind about that, lass,’ the farmer chortled. ‘More likely to be hit crossing the road.’

  After a couple of miles, Jarvis stopped, pointing to a straggly copse of trees on top of a hill.

  ‘Straight up there. You can’t miss it. Will you be able to find your own way back? I’ve got plenty of stuff to do at the farm.’

  Farrell thanked him. He handed a pair of plastic shoe covers to Mhairi and put on some himself. They climbed cautiously up the hill trying not to dislodge any stones or rocks as they went. On reaching the summit, they were breathing heavily. It had been steeper than it looked from a distance. As they moved carefully through the trees they could see the exposed bones lying in a small mossy clearing. They had clearly been placed in a shallow grave.

  ‘That’s odd,’ said Farrell, frowning. ‘The soil seems to have been turned over recently, but the bones are old.’

  ‘Look at those marks,’ said Mhairi, pointing to some indentations in the soil.

  ‘Someone has been up here not long ago, which means the bones were either brought here from elsewhere …’

  ‘Or someone wanted to take a little trip down memory lane,’ finished Mhairi. ‘About three years ago a girl went missing from this area, an Ailish Kerrigan. It was one of DCI Lind’s cases. He always felt that something bad had happened to her.’

  They retraced their steps carefully back down the hill and sat overlooking the sea, while they waited for SOCO. Mhairi perched on a rock and turned her white face up to the winter sun, which was now beating down on them with more fervour than normal for a January afternoon. A buzzard looped lazily around, silent and deadly. The seabirds squabbled endlessly on the cliffs.

  Farrell sat awkwardly on another rock. There was something rotten in this sleepy little town. Evil had burrowed under its skin and he was going to have to excise it using all means at his disposal. Comfortable in the silence, he closed his eyes for a few moments and prayed.

  ‘Sir!’ Mhairi shook his arm, startling him. He should have known better than to think she would give him five minutes’ peace.

  ‘They’re coming! I can see them in the distance.’

  They both scrambled to their feet and waved at the procession of bodies marching determinedly in single file towards them. As the group got closer they could see that there was an army officer leading the two SOCOs, Phil Tait and Janet White, followed by the two Kirkcudbright officers, DS Byers and another army officer bringing up the rear.

  As the army officers advanced, with their military bearing very much in evidence, Farrell had to fight the urge to stiffen to attention. He could hear a stifled giggle from McLeod and shot her a quelling glare, which if anything seemed to make her worse.

  The leading officer approached Farrell with an outstretched hand. He had been half expecting him to salute.

  ‘Lieutenant Benjamin Wood, at your service,’ he said.

  ‘DI Farrell, and DC McLeod,’ answered Farrell. ‘Sorry to drag you all the way here. How did you get down so quickly?’

  ‘We were at a training course nearby.’

  ‘What about the risk of unexploded ordnance, Lieutenant?’ Farrell asked.

  DS Byers looked worried. Nobody had filled him in then. Mind you, if he ran true to form he would be more concerned about ruining his expensive shoes than getting blown up.

  ‘Is this part we’re in at the moment safe?’ asked Byers.

  ‘As far as we know,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘Shells can veer dramatically off course. Don’t touch any suspicious objects, look where you’re placing your feet, and you should be fine.’

  ‘I’m going up there now with SOCO and, once they’ve done the necessary, the remains can be removed to the morgue at Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary,’ said Farrell. ‘I’m afraid we won’t know much until the pathologist has carried out an analysis and we’ve obtained the results of the lab tests, soil samples etcetera.’

  He returned up the hill with Phil and Janet, shrouded in their white plastic overalls and shoe covers. From past experience he didn’t dare to offer to lug Janet’s heavy kit bag for her. The scathing retort the first time he had tried had been enough. She might be small but she must pack some muscle.

  He pointed out the salient features of the scene then carefully retraced his steps, leaving the SOCOs to carry on with their work unimpeded. By the time he reached the small group, he saw that relations had thawed to the extent that the younger of the two military men was passing his card to Mhairi. Byers looked like a thundercloud. Farrell wished he could just move on. It was never going to happen.

  ‘Any further forward, sir?’ Byers asked.

  ‘Not really, there are markings in the ground that might suggest someone was up there recently.’

  ‘DS Byers, can you wait here, along with the two local officers, and manage the scene until the remains are removed? DC McLeod and I need to get back to Dumfries and take stock in relation to where we are with the other investigation.’

  Byers nodded. Farrell might not like the man but he was efficient and thorough when called upon. Solid backup, unlike DS Stirling, who wouldn’t blow his own nose without a risk assessment.

  As they returned to the car, at a brisk pace, Mhairi looked at the gadget on her wrist and announced: ‘That’s me done 20,000 steps so far. Not bad, eh?’

  ‘I refuse to be drawn in to this insanity,’ said Farrell.

  ‘You should get one, sir. After all, we do have to be able to catch criminals, don’t we?’

  ‘Usually, using our minds rather than our bodies, but I could still leave you standing, DC McLeod, so don’t get too cocky.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lind pulled into his driveway and turned off the ignition, leaning his head back against the headrest. He lowered the window and sucked in a lungful of freezing air as if it could push out the blackness that was threatening to engulf him. He couldn’t give in. He had to stay strong for his family. Laura had pulled far away from him and he was at a loss as to how to fix things between them. The stars twinkled remotely, indifferent to his problems.

  Sighing, he climbed out of the car, the frosty air stiffening his bones. Hiding out here would solve nothing. Straightening his shoulders, he pasted on a smile in readiness and tried to inject some energy into his steps as he let himself in. The silence was unusual this early. He went into the living room.

  DI Moore was sitting on the sofa with his youngest child, Adam, cuddled into her. He was fast asleep. Not for the first time he noticed how comfortable she was around children and thought she would make a wonderful mother. She was reading her Kindle and looked up and smiled as he entered, holding a finger to her lips.

  ‘He wouldn’t settle,’ she whispered. ‘He was wanting his mum. I’ve only just got him off.’

  After he had taken his sleepy son from her and tucked him in to his cot without prot
est, he returned downstairs.

  DI Moore was putting on her jacket.

  ‘Sorry, I kept you longer than I said, Kate. I thought Laura would have been home by now. I should have checked. Did she phone?’

  ‘Sorry, no. I expect she was caught up in something and didn’t notice the time,’ she said, ever the diplomat.

  ‘Kids behave themselves?’

  ‘We had great fun,’ she said, looking like she meant it. ‘It was a pleasure, John, honestly!’

  He imagined coming home to her calm tranquillity every night and pushed the thought away before it had time to take hold. What was wrong with him tonight?

  ‘Things are certainly hotting up at work,’ she said, as she was leaving.

  ‘So it would seem. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a very long day,’ said Lind.

  He checked in on the kids and found them all fast asleep. Molly was the spitting image of Laura, with her long dark curls spilling over the pillow. However, she wasn’t a tomboy like her mother had been when they were growing up; she was a quiet bookish child who took her role as big sister very seriously. He removed the book from her bed and carefully saved the page, before putting it on her bedside table.

  His four-year-old twins, Luke and Hugh, were sprawled in their bunk beds. Since the events of last year they had ceased to dress alike. Their matching duvet covers had gone. Lind felt sad that even that innocent pleasure had been taken from them.

  Finally, he looked in on Adam, who was still fast asleep in his cot. Satisfied, he went back downstairs. A murder and the remains of a body all within the space of a few days. Nothing to link them, but it was Kirkcudbright, for goodness’ sake! This was far from normal. There was also a forgery ring running out of there, if intelligence was to be believed. Much would depend on the identity of the bones as to how things went from here. He had a bad feeling about it all that he couldn’t shake. It didn’t help that he knew nothing whatsoever about art. Unless it was a nice watercolour, he was completely at a loss. Fortunately, DI Moore had a fair grasp of the subject. The house felt even emptier now she was gone. Where on earth was Laura?

  He decided not to wait up as he knew from recent experience that she was likely to come in spoiling for a fight. He fought the temptation to crack open a couple of beers and took himself off to bed even though it wasn’t yet ten. Things would seem better in the morning.

  The sound of laughter woke him. He glanced at his watch and saw it was after three. Laura was clearly drunk, and she had company. This just wasn’t on. If he didn’t get them to call time now, next thing the kids would be awake and it would be a wailing match all round.

  He entered the living room and stopped short. Laura was dressed to kill in an electric blue dress he had never seen before, but the make-up had slid off her face giving her a clownish appearance. She was absolutely steaming. There was no point in having it out with her now. He narrowed his eyes as he looked at the brassy blonde sitting sprawled beside her on the couch, legs akimbo, her short skirt leaving little to the imagination.

  ‘Get a good look, did you?’ she said, catching his gaze, giving him a nasty stare.

  This woman was trouble. He had met her type before. And now Laura, his gentle sweet wife, was in thrall to this creature. He stifled his rage and said as mildly as he could manage: ‘Laura, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

  ‘Her name’s Selena,’ she muttered, as if to say it wasn’t really any of his business. Well, tough, he was going to make it his business. If she wasn’t prepared to fight for their marriage he would have to fight hard enough for both of them.

  ‘My name’s John,’ he said, forcing Selena to take his outstretched hand. ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your second name?’ He leaned towards her, trying not to wince at the stink of stale alcohol and fags on her breath.

  ‘MacRae,’ she said, now looking wary and sitting up straighter.

  ‘Well, Selena, can I offer you a cup of coffee?’ he said pleasantly, but she caught the hint of steel in his eyes and stood up, gathering her coat and bag.

  ‘No thanks, time I hit the road. I’ll see you, pal,’ she said dropping a kiss on the top of Laura’s head on the way out.

  Laura sat stony-faced until she left then turned on him.

  ‘I don’t see what your problem is. Am I not allowed to have friends round now? Is that it?’

  ‘Of course, not,’ he soothed. ‘But it’s three o’ clock in the morning.’

  ‘Don’t try and “manage” me, John.’

  ‘I’m not!’ he snapped.

  ‘We were only having a bit of fun,’ she shouted.

  ‘Keep your voice down, the kids …’

  ‘The kids, the kids … that’s all I ever hear about. What about me, John? What about ME?’

  He looked at her helplessly. She was in a place he couldn’t reach, and he knew better than to try when she was in this state. Turning on his heel he left the room and went back to bed. He lay on his side, brooding, until she lurched clumsily into the room an hour later. He pretended to be asleep.

  He knew his work was beginning to suffer as he was so distracted by all the drama at home. Prior to the events of last year, he had thought they had a good marriage. Deep down he wondered if it was seeing Frank again after all those years that had unsettled her. He had worried when they first got together after Frank had left for the seminary. Wondered if he was simply the rebound guy? But they had built a solid, loving marriage, or so he had thought.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Farrell rose from his knees and genuflected on the way out of St Margaret’s. He had been up since 5 a.m., having already fitted in a run to Glencaple. Racing against the clock he’d wolfed down a hearty breakfast, finishing the requisite one hour before receiving Holy Communion. Catholics had to be nothing if not organized. He waved at his friend, Father Jim Murphy, on the way out, the poor man already knee-deep in the Catholic faithful.

  Twenty minutes later, he walked into the morning briefing, nodding at DI Moore and DCI Lind as he joined them at the front. They had decided to have joint briefings on all three major cases, since Kirkcudbright seemed to be the common denominator. Whether the cases were linked remained to be seen but, given that Kirkcudbright was hardly the crime capital of Europe, Farrell wasn’t yet ready to buy the coincidence theory.

  The room was packed out as they had also drafted in additional uniforms from outlying stations in the region to help with the investigations.

  DI Moore held up her hand for silence, and the chatter immediately died down.

  ‘As most of you will now be aware, this station has become involved in the investigation of an art forgery ring which originated in Glasgow and has now moved onto our patch. The forger is likely based in Kirkcudbright. Therefore, we need to do what we can to smoke him or her out, without alarming them to the extent that they shut up shop and move elsewhere. Recovering the forged painting was a stroke of luck, due to the tractor carrying it being involved in an RTA. Unfortunately, the driver had legged it well before we got to the scene. I doubt very much that he was the brains behind the operation. More likely some local rent-a-yob who was looking to make a quick few bob by smuggling the painting to the drop site. Given the mode of transport, I suggest that we start by looking at any local farm workers with convictions for dishonesty. The tractor has been impounded. The plates were false, so until it’s reported stolen, we can’t trace the owner. DC Thomson, can I leave that with you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, and have you got hold of the footage from Broughton House yet?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve had to go through the National Trust. I’m hoping to hear back from them later today.’

  ‘Don’t let them give you the runaround. We need that footage ASAP.’

  With that, DI Moore stepped down and DCI Lind took her place.

  ‘As you all know, human remains were discovered on the Dundrennan Firing Range yesterday.’

  ‘Any idea how long they�
��d been out there yet, sir?’ asked DS Stirling.

  ‘All I can tell you at the moment is that it’s been more than a year. There was no flesh left on the bones.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘There’s a possibility that it might be a young Irish girl, Ailish Kerrigan, who went missing from the area on 15th of June 2009 and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Her family have been informed of the find. The remains have been recovered and sent to the mortuary. I believe Roland Bartle-White is arranging for a well-respected forensic pathologist from Glasgow to come down and assist with identification and try to determine cause of death. It’s likely that once the remains have been identified this will be a murder investigation.’

  ‘I remember that case,’ said DS Stirling. ‘She was tangled up with a bunch of artists in Kirkcudbright. What was their name again? Sounded like something from Star Trek?’

  ‘The Collective,’ replied Lind.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Stirling.

  ‘You might want to familiarize yourself with the case again, in case we get a positive ID on those bones.’

  Stirling nodded assent.

  Lind stepped to the side to make way for Farrell.

  ‘Moving now to the suspicious death of Monro Stevenson,’ he said, ‘The Collective also has ties to the deceased.’

  There were a few murmurings. Farrell held up his hand for silence.

  ‘Don’t get too excited. Monro was an artist, and the missing girl was involved with an artist who lived there. There may be no more to it than that; it’s important not to jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Wasn’t another of the shortlisted artists from that lot as well?’ asked DS Byers.

  ‘Yes,’ said Farrell. ‘In fact you can come along and help out with the initial interviews, today, if you’re free? However, I absolutely do not want to put the wind up them. The emphasis must be on routine enquiries.’

  Byers nodded enthusiastically, making Farrell feel guilty. He was aware that he didn’t give Byers as many opportunities to get involved, due to his personal dislike of the man. Overcompensating he gave him a warm smile, which caused a flicker of surprise, followed by suspicion, to shoot across Byers’s face.